


Subconscious Attraction

by shiplizard



Category: Dresden Files - Jim Butcher
Genre: Cliche, M/M, Subconscious
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-05-18
Updated: 2010-05-18
Packaged: 2017-10-09 13:09:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,144
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/87841
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shiplizard/pseuds/shiplizard
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The dreaming world of Chicago.  A warlock leaves his head, meets a thug, has some good times.  (Cliches: Ids unleashed, sexy dreams.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Subconscious Attraction

_The warlock was wandering through the shadow of Chicago-- the half-solid, paved world made out of the dreams of every living soul in the city. Only wizards could move among the dreams; only wizards could leave their own heads, and so other figures were few and far between. He gave a wide berth to the traveling subconscious minds of the city's other wizards, cursing as the shadow of a caped, muscular figure soared overhead._

Morgan. What a pain.

A ghost wind whipped up his duster and mussed his nearly perfect hair. He smirked; it was a challenge. He'd stepped into a sleeping mind that not only recognized his presence, but was ready to resist him. That could be... very interesting.

He hadn't spoken to another soul since Lasciel had burned out of his mind like a single-use phoenix.

As a subconscious, he was allowed no illusions. He was lonely, as well as bored. He wanted to meet this mortal dreamer who had decided to challenge him.

He walked against the wind, into a maze of glass and steel. It might have been an office building, but it had been built on and over and through and now it was a cold, sterile labyrinth-- a sunless prison of restrained impulses and dead dreams, the doors labeled neatly and locked.

Imprisoned in the boardroom in the center, he found the subconscious of the dreamer.

The man was a thug, young and feral, with jungle-green eyes. A predator in ripped denim, oozing menace, malice, and sex.

He looked the warlock up and down, polished boots to combed hair, and pursed his handsome lips. "Don't suppose you could let me out," he said, his accent slightly Italy and mostly Chicago.

The warlock shook his head, but moved closer to the boardroom. Instead of glass in its wide picture window, it had sturdy bars. Like a prison cell. Like a tiger cage. The thug slid out of the office chair he'd been lounging in with catlike grace, and prowled up to the edge.

"No. I'd hurt him. Your conscious self; it would damage him so much that you wouldn't be able to do anything, anyway."

The thug snarled, briefly, and then leaned his head up against the bars. "Ain't I met you somewhere?"

"We've met. Awake." The warlock reached out to stroke the wild, dark hair, not particularly frightened of the thug's sharp teeth. "I dress with infinitely less style."

"I got a suit." The thug looked pained, closing his eyes and turning his face into the warlock's hand. "I remember you."

"Yes. ...you're well and truly penned in, aren't you?" the warlock withdrew his hand, and green eyes tracked its movement back.

"Johnnie's got such a STICK up his ass," the thug hissed. "All impulse control and moderation and abstaining—I want a fucking cigarette. You don't know how much I want a fucking cigarette. And a really good screw." He rubbed his face against one of the bars, an unsettlingly feline gesture. "What's the point of having all these women on the payroll if they don't get you off?"

"Don't you, though? I recall you having a pretty steady access to sex. Not like Harry. Good god, the man's a eunuch; I'm surprised it hasn't fallen off with disuse." The warlock quirked an eyebrow and moved close again, watching as the thug rubbed himself against the bars in an unquestionably sexual manner.

"Sex, sure. But it ain't what I want. There's no touch. I don't mean he uses protection; I mean he has to control it. Or he don't feel safe, and it's always gotta be safe." The thug bit his bottom lip, lifting his worn t-shirt with one hand. "No risks. I need the risk. You gotta expose yourself sometimes or what's the POINT?" He punctuated it with a vicious scratch across his stomach, leaving thin, red trails in the skin.

The warlock realized that he was licking his bottom lip.

Leaf-green predatory eyes fixed him again, and the thug's smile was half shy and half obscene invitation. "He gets in trouble when he's around you, though. Takes risks. Oh, fuck yes he does."

"Harry hates him. That's how he deals with temptation—all that money. Oh, god, the money. He hates it so it will tempt him less." The warlock allowed himself a burst of anger—his conscious mind was too obsessed with morals to be pragmatic. Hence basement. Hence tiny corner office.

"Likewise. Johnnie can't admit to himself that he likes a challenge. He don't dare. Can't even show a little weakness." The thug pressed close, pulling himself flush with the bars, making his t-shirt ride away from his bare stomach where the fingernail scratches were fading away.

"Poor boy."

The warlock leaned close, pressed his lips against the thug's. A kiss through bars, and heartbreakingly unsatisfying.

There was a sharp pain in his lower lip; the taste of blood.

"Vento Servitas!" The spell only worked because the thug knew that it worked; the warlock's only power here was what he was given.

He was given enough to hurl the little bastard away, slamming him like a ragdoll into the desk in the center of the room.

The thug stood up, dazed, shaking his head, standing unsteady. "What's that mean?"

"It means don't bite me," the warlock said coldly.

"...even if I liked it?" The thug said with a grin, cupping the crotch of his pants, where a noticeable tent was forming. The warlock felt the willingness, the need—magic. Risk, control, and power. A common interest, and weren't the best relationships based on a common interest?

The warlock blinked at him, and a slow, wicked smile slid over his face. "No. Not then. Then it means... come here and do it again."  


I woke up with a hard-on and a few lingering images of touching someone through bars. It was a disturbing image; something about it worried me—and sent a little pulse of arousal through my pelvis.

A cold shower got rid of the last physical evidence of my dream, and then I dragged myself into some of my nicer clothes. Not too nice, though. I had to go play contract mediator between the Summer Queen (who I like) and the only purely human freeholding lord in the world (who I do not like.)

John Marcone is criminal scum. Not at the sadistic, mustache twisting level, but scum nonetheless. Ruthless and cold. He can be trusted to protect his people and his interests, but not an inch further-

I caught my reflection in a mirror and frowned.

We make all kinds of expressions when we aren't thinking about it. Idle thoughts show up on our face.

I just kind of wanted to know why thinking of Chicago's most powerful crime lord had made me smile like a cat in a canary store.


End file.
